


A Copious and Delicious Discharge

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Crack, Gunplay, Inanimate Object Porn, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was never such love as true as this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Copious and Delicious Discharge

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal Sep. 22nd, 2010.
> 
> My good friend was bugging me to write this pairing for the longest time, and I wasn’t really sure what to write for it but then I was reading The Romance of Lust and the horror of the Victorian porn was enough to inspire me. The title came from the book, as well as the quaint style I’ve written this in. It’s just too lulzy to pass up.

Agent Maine, or as he was more known now, the Meta, was finding it quite clear in recent times that his company wasn’t wanted much anymore. Where he used to be charming and charismatic and known almost completely as the freelancer who was the most desired (and really, caught the most tail), he was now an object of fear and horror, degenerated to the soft growlings only himself and those who witnessed his dissolve could understand.   
  
At first, when he’d finally stopped fighting and became someone people would talk to again, he’d turned to deep and bitter sarcasm and patronizing words (“Meta, go fix the warthog.” “Bitch, please.” or, “Meta, stop mucking around and get over here.” “Bitch, PLEASE.”) but even that, in due time, proved to be pointless.   
  
Nobody understood him, nobody cared to understand him, and it was readily apparent that if he so much as lifted a finger in opposition to someone they would treat him as they had before. Back when he was a liability, a danger... A monster.  
  
Was it such a surprise, then that the Meta brushed off all social contacts and deemed to brood alone, instead? Agent Washington, despite being his own brand of kind for the most part, still had that infuriating air of sophistication and patronizing, like he were some dog to be trained. Just because his mind wasn’t always the most functional, and his language had rotted beyond recognition, did not mean he was incapable of understanding. He was trapped in his chaotic shifting world, and there was little to hang onto to keep him grounded in reality.  
  
Little but for the object that never left his sight: his beloved Brute Shot. Through all of his exhaustingly trying experiences, it was the one thing that had never changed. It had always been the one to cling so loyally to his back, to slide into his gloved hands with quick and vicious precision in the heat of battle, to slash and explode and render everything before him discorporate in a symphony of vocal booms and shining metallic notes.   
  
It lay quiet, now, beside him on his side of the camp fire. Agent Washington lay sleeping on the other side, his form hazy and warping through his view of the flames; he didn’t matter. The Meta cast him from his mind, and the knowledge that the other freelancer was even there then trickled from his conscious and memory like sand through a sieve. He turned his attention instead to his beloved weapon. The only thing keeping him from sheer and utter insanity.   
  
He reached out a gloved hand to caress it, only to rethink the action inches before contact. No; they had both gone too long with the sterile barrier of armor. In this brief and rare moment of completely silence and peace, they deserved more than that. His Brute Shot deserved more than that.  
  
Gloves had somehow become more confusing contraptions than he remembered them to be. Had it really been so long that he’d taken this daring step to expose himself? He pushed the thought from his mind; the tangle of kevlar mesh was proving too much of a hassle for him to multitask with. After a long moment, he managed to yank the wretched thing off of his hand, pale and gaunt from so long without sunlight.   
  
That held his captivation for a moment. There were more scars across his hands than he remembered being there, and at once he felt even moreso an alien in his own skin. His mind was so far removed his own memories were a murky swamp. Everything faded in and out of focus, with one point solid and reachable – Brute Shot.  
  
He turned back to the object, reaching out his bare hand to smooth across the black metal casing that protected its mechanics. His dry skin produced a rough yet gentle hiss from the skin-to-textured contact; Brute Shot’s way of letting him know this intimacy between them had been much, much too long in the waiting.  
  
“I know, baby,” he said, but it came out as a harsh, guttural purr. His hand ghosted over more of the weapon’s casing, finally reaching an area that made his hand quiver, unsure if he should continue: the grenade chute.   
  
It had been too long since they were this close, this personal in touching. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to embrace and become enraptured in Brute’s chute anymore. He had been far too long celibate with his beloved. He didn’t deserve its unwavering loyalty and love anymore.  
  
He allowed himself one lingering trace of the perfect, circular entrance. It surprised him by making a deep, low whine. Perhaps it was because of excess moisture and the surface tension of the cylinder, but the Meta knew better. He knew that it was Brute’s way of telling him he was forgiven, but needed.  
  
It was a plea for love.  
  
The Meta purred another apology, stripping himself of his armor as quickly as he could. Any spare moment he gave to the purpose of stroking Brute’s casing again gently, reassuring it that he would soon be ready.  
  
It wasn’t long with Meta’s intense concentration to devoid himself of everything that kept between him and his Brute Shot. His rubs against the casing were faster now, conveying his impatience. He wriggled from the death vice of his kevlar, freeing himself to the world like a birth anew. His bare flesh complained at the sudden expanse of dirt and heat of the world, but the irritation only served to drive him onward, hoisting Brute up to position.  
  
He paused to admire the way the firelight shimmered and danced across its blade. It may have been nicked and scratched, but Brute’s blade was still the most gorgeous thing the Meta had ever laid eyes on. It gleamed brightly, its gentle, sloping curve the only smile Meta ever needed to see. He trailed a gentle finger over its casing once more, following it down the grenade chute until he reached the entrance again, tantalizingly slow.  
  
Taking a moment to reposition his seat on the ground, Meta stroked a gentle path up and down the chute, preparing Brute for his inevitable penetration. Slowly, he eased Brute into position, spitting into his palm as an afterthought and slicking himself. Already his cock was as hard as the armor it had been encased in, throbbing deliciously. It had been so long. He ached so badly for the feeling of completeness with his one true ally.  
  
Despite the passage of time, Brute was still ever so accepting, so submissive and loving as it took Meta’s length deep into its chute. Somehow, despite not being used since the day before, its depths were still warm, a pulsing heady darkness that Meta couldn’t believe he’d waited this long to feel again. He groaned, a low phlegmy hiss, gliding out gently to thrust once more in.   
  
The soft metallic shifting of his thrusts drove him to sigh in unison, pressing himself in and out with a speed faster than he’d originally planned. He’d hoped to be slow, savory, caressing every divot and sheet of metal, but this need was too great, he was wild with desire and love for his Brute Shot and there was absolutely no way to show it, no matter how fast he bucked his hips.  
  
Sighs turned into low, hoarse groans, louder and louder as he thrust as deep as he could possibly reach. Brute’s insides were so warm, so smooth, so accepting. Grasping Brute tightly, he shifted slightly, hoping to penetrate deeper, to become even further one with his love.   
  
His hand slipped. The blade sliced across all four fingers; a shallow cut, but it stung, staining Brute’s shiny smile with red. Meta paused, remorse flooding his senses. He’d hurt Brute, he had to have, otherwise, why would Brute have hurt him in return? He moved back to his original position, going slower, stroking Brute’s casing gently in apology. Brute didn’t keep him out, or make any noise of complaint, and its blade was still mostly shiny, so Meta took that as a sign that whatever he had done wrong had already been forgiven.   
  
Sighs turned to groans, which in turn became throaty mewls as he tensed, feeling the inevitable release on the horizon. As much as he wanted to spill every last drop of his orgasm deep within his Brute Shot, he knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. He’d done that last time, and that was partially the reason why there was such a dry spell. Brute had been grumpy and irritable and refused to work properly for the next week before Meta apologized by rubbing it down with oil and whispering sweet nothings into its belt feed.   
  
  
It took a great amount of self-control to withdraw from his beloved, and not a moment too soon: the sudden contrast of cold air against his quivery staff was enough to make him lose himself, white hot desire turned to shrapnel behind his eyelids. A feral cry ripped from his throat as he spilled across Brute’s casing, slowly tapering off as he descended into an afterglow.  
  
The fire had burned lower, and the dim light served to solidify the feeling of drowsy completion that had fallen over Meta. Hoisting Brute Shot up onto his chest in a show of affectionate protection, Meta settled back down, eyes already drooping. A slight, content smile pulled at his lips, and he found himself falling into slumber without the usual mind terrors.  
  
Brute Shot reclined on his chest, rising with Meta’s breaths, watching over him before it, too, slipped toward the ground and grew still.  
  


  
  
Nothing could have prepared Meta for this moment.  
  
Nothing before, nothing so painful and horrifying could ever compare to what he felt now.  
  
His beloved, his Brute Shot... it was leaving him. It was willingly slipping into the hands of the enemy, willingly firing at him, willingly escaping his grasping hands; what had he done to deserve this bitter betrayal?  
  
He fought, but his heart wasn’t in it. How could it be, when it was so painfully wrenched from him so suddenly?  
  
When the warthog was hooked to him, he spared only a cursory glance to it. Before him was an empty expanse of space; before him was freedom from this acute and biting pain.  
  
His hands, out of instinct, sought purchase on the edge as he went over.  
  
The last thing he saw was his beloved, no shame or kept secret about the way it clung heavily to the orange one’s back. In such a short time he had been betrayed and replaced.  
  
He had no reason to hold on.


End file.
